PROCESSING SUBJECTIVITY Photography may be the most ambiguous medium. It seems to celebrate the moment, but in capturing whatever happens at this very moment, it turns that »whatever« into something which did happen already – opening a field of virtuality which reflects on what we wished to perceive as mere reality, questioning (though at the same time emphasizing) the consistence of the real thing, even more translating what would have been mere perception into the realm of experience.

Delacroix, in his diary, mentions the case of a photograph showing a star that had expired before photography has been invented – its light taking long enough to find its way to the eye of some beholder who, relying on this one sense, wouldn’t have been able to distinguish present from past.This is, being the title of an exhibition, points out the indicative function of anything depicting something else. The artist’s principal, though discreet statement seems to be that this (also) is photography, though none of these pictures show »something else«: there is no piece of paper giving the illusion of seeing Mr. Lincoln or a Buick. Nevertheless there had been a beach, a door, a plant, something blue or soft ...

So there had been something seen, chosen, captured – cropping reality to something particular, emphasizing the quality of the real; but there has been another time of doing the same thing with something else; then another time ... each time being a process itself, as it belongs to photography in general: selecting, shifting accents, pointing out values – making each process a pars pro toto of the particular piece of work, as well as of photography, as of art.

What we see is a status quo, but as the explicit result of earlier results, layering one print (part of reality) over another, thus giving a very concrete idea of history. The particular piece of work, calledCold Pattern or Black and White Mass, may lead us away from whatever happened (leading to one title and another one), while it is the image that happens right now.


A manifold of photographs that have been decomposed, transformed, dissolved into space, a process of deconstruction not only of photographs but of the self, this is, not because of the technical process per se but because of the journey, the journey that brought them into existence and then tore them apart.

For months and months I travelled through places, at first in response to an urge to escape and then with a clear intent to confront. It was the self I was escaping from and then it was the self I wanted to look at in the eye. My beliefs, prejudices, opinions and illusions, all that which made me the person I thought I was had to be challenged, perused, questioned. And hence, burnt. Falsity dwells in shadow and to Illuminate that shadow was my purpose.

As I journeyed through south and north in India, in land and in city, as I crossed invisible borders , through Israel and Palestina, US and Mexico, as I walked in darkness through ancient Europe frequenting memories both cherished and repulsed, craving that love, or that who was absent, always in need to fix, or change what made little or no sense, as I dived into fishless Mediterranean seas and red deserts in Arizona, or jazzed my way in New Orleans, crossing America East to West, as I met the rich, the poor, the filthy and the clean, the chaos and the order, the natural and the manufactured, the skin would burn and bleed-.

Meanwhile the camera recorded, projections were imprinted on a pixel screen. And with the passing time they'd look more like and array of patterns than a something. Separations began to fade, the tree was not a tree anymore. I'd see repetitions to melange, expand, contract, levels to be dodged, colors to saturate, brighten, imbue of more or less hues, all in one virtual space. Pixels looked more like parts of threads being unweaved and then weaved again.

As impermanent as my photographs so was my reality. My memories, my dreams, my terrors, and deep ingrained beliefs , all conforming the skin of the self, the flesh, were exposed to light. A light illuminating , capturing, examining until it was, blank. The sort of blankness that would invite thoughts and see them pass. Just as that orange Palm in Mexico that looked oxidada, or the dusty old window in ruins reflecting and afternoon sun In Old Dehli, or the glazed cactus at dawn in the streets of beechwood canyon in Hollywood - all that illusion on the screen I saw and then not. They disappeared Into a canvas of pixels for new emergence to take place.